I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off
by storm101
Summary: Cain has been in charge of some pretty important prosecutions lately, but his most memorable case was early in his career, and one he lost. But it's a good thing he failed to put Riffael Raffit in jail, because now he needs the doctor's help. He's just been shot, you see, and he needs that bullet. It's evidence. :: Lawyer!AU, modern. Apologies for the misuse of legal terms.
1. Chapter 1

**See end of chapter for details.**

* * *

Cain leaned against the door heavily as he fumbled, left handed, with the keys. His right was pressed hard to his side. The door gave way against his struggles, and Cain hissed in pain as he stumbled into his apartment, tossing his keys carelessly to one side. He went straight to the bathroom, trying to take his jacket and shirt off without jolting his side and making the whole situation worse, or at least more painful.

It proved more difficult than he had expected, but eventually Cain had perched on the edge of the tub, examining the gunshot wound in the mirror as best as he could. It wasn't serious-at least, he hadn't been shot anywhere near particularly vital organs and as far as he could tell no bones had been broken. In this, he was lucky. That a bullet was still embedded in his side-not so lucky.

Oh, but he really didn't want to go to the hospital, given the circumstances…

Left handed again, Cain slipped his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through the contacts. Had he really been so lax as to not make friends with someone with medical training? Cain scowled. Except Raffit. And he really, really did not want to call him. Really, Raffit would only be upset by the call. It had been years. Except… Well, Raffit was a doctor, a good doctor, with a good reputation, had graduated with high honors, and the only other person on his contact list with any sort of medical knowledge at all was _Crehador, _and that was with his questionable snake oil and useless homeopathy.

With a sigh, Cain hit call.

The pair of them had not met under the best of circumstances. In fact, they'd been on opposite sides of the law, or at least opposite sides of the bench. _New York v Raffit_ had been one of the earliest cases Cain had been involved in. Three days before Christmas, the Raffit home had burnt to the ground, killing three of the four family members. Police investigation had proved arson. Post-mortem had revealed that the mother and father had both been stabbed prior to the fire. The younger of two brothers, named Clyde, had received a blow to the head but had actually died of smoke inhalation and his burns. The elder brother, Riffael, had been hospitalized, but with comparatively minor burns. An open and shut case, absurdly simple on the surface. It wasn't hard to guess that Riffael Raffit had done it-there was no evidence of a fifth person in the house.

But things broke down in court.

Riffael Raffit had pleaded innocent, and as far as defense attorneys go, he had a pretty good one. Their defense wasn't so much centered on making a case against someone else as it was against proving their client hadn't done it at all. Riffael Raffit was personable and open and, god take his eyes, _likable. _The jury had been entirely too understanding of his situation-and there were things that hadn't fit with the case, questions not answered by the simple solution Cain wanted to be true.

But. Riffael Raffit was lying. There were things about his version of events that didn't fit, either, but it was all so instinctual, and the man so damn expressionless that every time Cain attempted to push him, to shock him, to find an obvious hole in his defense to pull into the open and shove the jury's face in it… Nothing. There was nothing. Just that same calm, measured voice, steady hands, and perhaps a flicker of his eyes.

The verdict was returned as not guilty. Raffit had buried his face in his hands and physically shook-the closest he'd come to a breakdown throughout the trial.

Cain had cornered him after the trial, waiting for him in the courtyard. The seven-inch height difference didn't matter-Cain had backed him into a corner, angry and furious at the loss when he knew Raffit was absolutely guilty. The man had been startled at first, but had recovered himself and gestured towards a nearby, semi-secluded bench.

"You are right. I was lying," he had said, "But not about what you believe. But… I might as well tell you. It's over, so it shan't matter." His hands had been shaking, for the first time.

Cain followed, but didn't sit, standing before him with arms crossed, as if he were still the prosecutor, as if he could still cross-examine his witness. "You admit you were lying under oath, then?" he had first demanded. "You are a murderer."

"No," Raffit had said quietly, resigned. "No, I am not a murderer. I didn't kill my parents, and if I killed Clyde it was only through negligence, panic, a charge of manslaughter rather than murder-and believe me, I ask myself every day whether or not I am guilty of Clyde's death. Sometimes the answer is yes, and sometimes the answer is no-but I believe you wanted me to tell you what really happened, not philosophical musings."

"You _were _lying, though."

The man had smiled at that. "As I already said, Mr. Hargreaves, you are right. I was lying, but not about what you think. I maintain I am not a murderer, nor guilty of the charges brought against me." Raffit had sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. "There are details in your case, however, which do not make sense. Allow me to sum up your version of events?" Cain had waved one hand, wishing he'd get on with it. "I stabbed my mother and father, knocked my brother out, and set fire to the house before escaping myself. I allowed myself to be burned in order to seem innocent. That is what you believe happened, correct?"

"Yes, yes. What were you lying about?"

Raffit ignored him. "But there are things that don't match up. Why change my method when it came to killing Clyde? If he had surprised me while I was killing my parents, would I not have used the knife upon him, too? Why would he not have any defensive wounds caused by a knife, if he were defending himself from it? What motive would I have for killing my parents, when I have always had a fairly good relationship with them? And, afterwards, in the hospital… You have seen the medical records, you know I attempted suicide multiple times. Why would I, if the entire incident was planned and executed by myself? There are as many holes in your story as in mine, Mr. Hargreaves."

"Mr. Raffit, you are stalling."

There was another brief half smile. He straightened, shoulders going back slightly, as if he were once again being called to the stand. "My brother and I had both come home for the holidays-I had arrived on the twentieth, my brother two days later, upon the morning of the twenty second. He was agitated, but seemed glad to be home. At dinner that night he had more wine than we had seen him drink before, and began to bitterly complain. He revealed he was in some measure of financial trouble, and his biggest reason for coming home was to get help from our parents. My father refused, vehemently, as they had bailed him out of trouble before this. Clyde was angry and left entirely, storming out. After dinner we all spoke for a while. I remember I was reading a novel, an historical fiction my mother had recommended, and we were talking about that… My father was doing the dishes. We were all hoping Clyde would come back soon. Eventually, though, around ten, my mother decided to go to sleep. I followed soon after. My father stayed up to wait for Clyde, feeling rather guilty and explaining he'd like to get more details about the situation, as he was worried he had acted rashly, and it was, after all, nearly Christmas.

"I was woken at three in the morning by shouting, and then a scream. I left my room, and went to the living room, where I had left my father. There was a very strong smell of gasoline, or at least something like it. Clyde had returned, and was standing over my father's body. He had been stabbed. My mother, whose room was closer, had gotten there before I did, and had been the one to scream. I watched Clyde kill her, too, stabbing her twice. The first strike likely hit a rib, but the second went far deeper. He saw me in the doorway, as I hadn't brought myself to move yet, and came towards me, shouting as well. I defended myself against him, getting several cuts on my arms. I was always much taller than Clyde, and broader, but he was angry-deranged, even-and I didn't understand, or even want to understand, what he had done, and why he had done it." For the first time in his story, Riff began to falter, eyes distant with remembered emotions. "He… eventually, he slipped. In… In some of the blood. He went over backwards, cracking his head on the floor and-and he wasn't moving. He had lost consciousness at that point, and had knocked a lamp over. It… was an old lamp, with a frayed cord. Mom had been after dad to get the cord replaced, or to throw it out, for… months, now. It sparked, and a fire started. It took me several minutes to realize there was a fire, and by then I couldn't put it out myself. I tried, though… That's why I had some burns. After that… I panicked. I ran, and left Clyde behind. I hadn't known he was still alive-I should have, I should have checked on them all, that's the first thing I should have done, but… I was afraid, and I panicked." Riff took a deep breath and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. After a moment, he continued.

"Everything else that happened I pieced together afterwards, as best I could. I believe-and from here, everything is speculation on my part-but I believe my father had fallen asleep while waiting for Clyde to come back. Clyde made the decision and formed the plan while he was out. The living room is not within sight of the front door, so when Clyde returned, he doused the house with accelerant. My father woke-likely because of the smell. They argued, Clyde killed him, and then killed my mother, and tried to kill me. The electrical fire spread quickly through to other rooms, as the carpet was soaked with gasoline. After knocking my brother out, I suspect I went into shock-which is why it took me so long to realize a fire had started. I wasn't thinking as clearly as I normally would be-otherwise I would have checked their vitals, and, hopefully, stopped the fire before it got out of hand. Before I lost the house as well as my family…" He sighed, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose before opening his eyes at last. "But, Mr. Hargreaves, there you have it, the truth you wanted. That is what really happened that night."

Cain had stood in silence for several minutes. "You were protecting your brother?" he demanded finally, incredulously. "Why? He's dead! If you had told the police that much, from the beginning, you'd have never been put on trial!"

"I know it," Riffael Raffit had interrupted, watching him in silence. "I do. But… my brother had never had trouble with the law, before. He had a wide circle of friends, a fiancee who he loved dearly, and who loved him. For those people to find out the truth, that Clyde died a murderer… My reputation is one of little social impact. I am dedicated to my work, have few friends, no lovers. I still don't understand why Clyde would act as he did-but to taint his name after death… even at the cost of my own reputation, I couldn't bring myself to do that. I am not guilty, and I have been judged as such by the court as well."

"You're an idiot," Cain growled. "A lucky fool." Why hadn't he considered the brother as a guilty party from the start?

"Yes."

"You would sacrifice your present life for someone already dead! I've never seen anything so stupid! How could you even think of doing such a thing?"

At this, Raffit had only laughed, relaxing back into the bench and running a hand through his hair. "I've been acquitted either way. As I told you before, Mr. Hargreaves, you knowing the truth now does not matter."

"But I still don't-"

"You don't have any siblings, do you?" Raffit had interrupted, standing again and tugging his suit coat straight. "Clyde… Regardless of those last few hours, he was still my baby brother, and I loved him. It does me very little harm to allow his fiancee to preserve her image of him, or his friends to still think well of him."

Cain let him walk away, not even watching him leave. The case had had some press, and listening to Raffit's story, he had been tempted to go to the reporters and spill the entire thing-except Raffit was wrong. He did have siblings. A sister, a younger sister, who he loved dearly and was then only eighteen and had her whole life ahead of her and friends and if they were in a similar situation…

Cain Hargreaves understood the protective impulse better than Raffit thought he did. He understood it perfectly. So he let Raffit walk away, and kept the secret, and watched Merry thoughtfully for the next several days.

That had been five years ago, and something of a turning point for Cain, too, and why he'd copied Raffit's file and kept it. It had, after all, been the first case he considered just poisoning the defendant and being done with it, especially when Raffit walked away. But it had also made him reconsider a few things. After all, he had been wrong. He had jumped to conclusions, had not examined the evidence himself.

Really, the need to examine the evidence himself had led to him bleeding into his bathtub and all over his nice, tiled, floor, so perhaps he didn't make the safest of decisions, but-

"Hello?"

"Yes, Dr. Raffit?" Cain spoke briskly into the phone, keeping the soaked washcloth tight against his side. At the least the bleeding had mostly stopped. "I just have a few quick questions for you."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"Cain Hargreaves, of Hargreaves Legal." He glanced at his watch, and winced when he saw the time. "I am sorry to call so late, but it's something of an emergency."

"It's nearly one, I'm sure it-this is my house phone. How do you even have this number?"

Oh, he had hoped that question wouldn't occur to Raffit so quickly. Cain brushed the matter to one side, still sounding as poised as he possibly could. "Would you be available tonight?"

"For what?" He still sounded vaguely hoarse with sleep, and entirely incredulous. Cain considered readjusting his phrasing, but changed his mind.

"I require your assistance in something of a personal matter. There's a .22 caliber bullet buried in my side and I'd like it out before the offices open tomorrow morning."

"A bullet- You realize I'm not a surgeon, right? And that a hospital would be a better place for you right now? Where _are _you? How did you even get shot?"

"You graduated top of your class from John Hopkins," Cain countered. "And had glowing recommendations from your supervisor at the trauma ward during residency."

"Which was almost a decade ago. Where are you getting this information? Do you still have a _file _on me?" There was movement, though, the sounds of rustling sheets. "Go to the hospital."

"Shan't," Cain said cheerfully. He had been shot while exploring a murder scene he probably shouldn't have been exploring. He was in the middle of prosecuting an important case-he wasn't about to get dragged to the bench on charges himself.

"All right, fine. You had better have had the sense to put pressure on the wound. Do you need the address to my clinic or do you have that, too? And do you have someone to drive you? Don't you dare drive here by yourself."

"I do. Have a ride, I mean, though I also do have your address. I shall meet you at your clinic, then?"

"Yes." There was then a quieter murmur of "Oh, God, what have I-" before it cut off as Raffit hung up.

Cain went back to the contacts, trying not to feel too smug. Hitting his sister's number from speed dial, he waited patiently while it rang. "Merry?" he said the instant it picked up. "Sorry to wake you."

"You didn't. Where are you?"

"…It's past one, you should have been asleep," Cain said, narrowing his eyes. "You _are _at home. Right?"

"Yes, I'm in my room."

"Good, I'm in the bathroom. I need you to drive me somewhere."

"…Why did you call me on the phone if you were just down the hall?"

Cain surveyed the bloody washcloth and the hopefully not going to be stained tiled floor. "Well, I'm having some difficulty moving. I need you to drive me somewhere."

Merry hung up, and Cain scowled at the phone for the five seconds before there was a knock on the door and his younger sister stuck her head in. "For Heaven's sake, -Oh my GOD, Cain, what-"

"I got shot. I've arranged someone to get the bullet out and patch me up, but I need a ride there, first," Cain said, standing very carefully and pulling his shirt back on. "So, that's you."

"Cain, you said you were going to dinner," she accused, but reached out to assist him out of the bathroom and towards the front door.

"I did. And then went to investigate the scene of the crime." Merry cursed, and Cain gave her a very stern look. "Language, Merryweather."

"Give it up, Cain, I'm twenty three, not thirteen. And I think this situation calls for a "fuck" or "shit" or two. Someone shot you at the scene, then?" She bundled him into the car and started it. Belatedly, Cain thought he ought to button up his shirt.

"Mhm. Which means I'm probably right, if they want me out of the way so badly," he added cheerfully. "You'll want to turn right, from here."

"Sometimes I hate you," Merry snapped at him, scowling. It wasn't as effective as it should have been, given that she was still dressed in the very frilly dress she had just received the day before. Cain swallowed anyway and decided not to mention the blood he had left seeping into the white, lacy sleeve. Merryweather Hargreaves was a sweet looking thing and her tastes in fashion did nothing to negate that impression, as she dressed more like a doll than a modern woman, but her fury was one of the most frightening things Cain had ever experienced.

"Yes, of course. Which is why you're driving me God knows where in the middle of the night."

"You're not going to work tomorrow morning."

"Of course." Yes, he was, but for the moment it might be best not to mention this.

A light was on in Raffit's clinic when Merry pulled into the parking lot and turned off the car. She rushed around to the other side and looped an arm around Cain's waist, helping him out of the car and steadying him. "Thank God you have the sense to have emergency medical help on speed dial," she muttered as they stumbled into the door. "I swear, Cain, you're getting me a new coord after all of this." She reached the door and stopped speaking. "Oh my God. My new coord." The door opened and she dragged him inside, continuing to rant. The waiting room was decorated with bright, primary colors, and a mural of a jungle decorated one large wall. "You're bleeding all over my new coord! I got this _yesterday, _Cain!"

"Hydrogren peroxide?" he offered, shooting a sheepish grin in Raffit's direction. He looked more than a little bewildered, probably because he hadn't imagined Cain's promised help to be a young, frilly woman. He was also just as tall as Cain remembered. Cain wasn't short, about two inches shy of six feet, but Raffit was excessively tall. And excessively handsome… It really wasn't fair.

"This is Innocent World! Do you know how _expensive _this was, Cain?"

"Please don't tell me, it's my money. Where do you want us to go, Doctor Raffit?" he added quickly, hoping to change the subject. Merry was still fuming.

"Er." To his credit, he recovered quickly. "I've sterilized an examination room as best as I can. I still say you should have gone to the hospital instead of me, but we'll see what I can do." He stepped forward, taking Merry's place carefully.

Between the two of them, Cain was soon ensconced in one of the examination rooms. The bench was at least six inches shorter than it needed to be, leaving most of Cain's calves sticking off the end.

"I told you I wasn't a surgeon," Dr. Raffit reminded him when he noticed Cain scowling. "And that you should go to the hospital." He went to the nearby sink and began to scrub his hands, watching the clock.

"What is it you do, then?" Merry asked, perching on one of the chairs. She picked up a stuffed dog and waved it teasingly at Cain. "Pediatrician?"

"Yes, exactly." He didn't look away from the clock. Cain's scowl deepened.

"Don't you dare flirt with him, Merry. He's almost fifteen years older than you."

Merry stuck out her tongue. "Why, you want him for yourself?"

"Tonight's the first time we've spoken in five years."

"The _fuck, _Cain?! I thought you said you had someone you could trust! Did you pull his name out of the phonebook or something?" Cain felt briefly sorry for the toy, as its neck was being wrung.

Dr. Raffit coughed, turning off the water. "Do you want an anesthetic?" he asked as he gathered his instruments together. Cain hesitated. He hated being drugged, hated the inability to control his own thoughts or movements or even state of consciousness-but he also had a bullet in his side that he was not looking forward to having dug out without some sort of painkiller.

"General or local?" he asked.

"Either, though I was leaning towards general. I don't have anything to put you under entirely, I'm afraid, but you wouldn't be fully present, and you won't remember it."

"Local, then," Cain decided, and Riff nodded.

"I need your shirt off," he added, returning to the cabinets over the sink and measuring out a careful dose of some clear, yellowish liquid. "You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Hay fever?" Cain offered, struggling out of his shirt.

"Not exactly medically relevant. I'm working blind here, Mr. Hargreaves, as I have no access to your history." The pediatrician tapped the syringe level and placed it to one side, before helping Cain carefully out of his shirt. Disappointingly, he kept his eyes on the bullet wound. "This will sting a bit," he warned. "I need to sterilize the area first, before I can give you the local." He opened another package with an iodine soaked sponge (the smell was unmistakeable), wiping it around the wound. Cain hissed. "I know, I know it hurts," Raffit murmured, picking up the syringe and pressing the needle right above the shot. "But it'll feel a lot better afterwards." The placebo effect hit almost immediately, and Cain sighed in relief.

"Don't treat me like a child," he complained reflexively.

"By definition, pediatricians treat children," Raffit reminded him, raising one eyebrow. "If you wished to be treated like an adult, you should have gone to the hospital." Cain opened his mouth to protest, couldn't think of what to say, and closed it again, sulking instead. Merry giggled, and he glared at her.

"Miss Merry, would you go wait outside, please? I haven't done anything like this in several years and I need to concentrate." Merry flounced to her feet.

"Take care of my brother," she ordered, just before the door shut behind her.

Cain hissed at an inadvertently painful prod. "Careful!"

"Sorry," Raffit murmured, and continued his work, hands gentler. He was biting his lip.

"She's my younger sister," Cain commented finally. "Just turned twenty three a few months ago, lives with me until she finds a job. She graduated from art school a couple of years ago. Visual, though she could have gone in for piano. All those terrorized instructors paid off." He was rambling, wasn't he? Dammit. Maybe he could blame it on the anesthesia.

"Mm." There was silence, but for the slightly squishy noises of flesh and the faint click of Raffit's tools. "You're lucky, the bleeding's almost stopped, except for what I'm reopening, and there's no real organ damage, it's all muscle," Raffit said finally. "Extracting the bullet will make the bleeding a lot worse, though, and increase the likelihood of requiring a blood transfusion, which I'm not equipped for. I'd recommend leaving the bullet in for the moment," he added, but Cain cut him off.

"I need the bullet out, it's evidence," he protested.

Dr. Raffit pursed his lips, but sighed. "If that's the case, I demand you take at least three days' leave from work, eating lots of meat, and take iron supplements. A transfusion would require the hospital, and you're clearly not going to go there." Cain scowled. Well, he supposed he could investigate some more, if he was banned from the office… "And when I say three days' leave from work, I mean three days at home. I'll make sure your sister is aware of the orders, too."

"Can't it be shorter?"

"It _should _be a week," Raffit insisted. "If the bullet comes out, you stay at home for three days."

Cain sighed, and conceded defeat. "Fine, all right, _fine… _Just get the thing out of me without damaging it."

Riff scoffed, but accepted the conditions. "Very well. I need you to hold still."

The lawyer closed his eyes. "Get on with it, then."

A few hours later, Cain had been bandaged up and presented with a small, plastic bag, with the date written neatly upon it with black sharpie. "You never did tell me what happened," Riff finally asked. "I'd like an explanation, now that the crisis has passed."

"And I'm not going to give you one," Cain informed him cheerfully, snatching the bag out of his hands before Raffit could do something stupid and clever, like bribe him for the story.

"I'll send the bill by your office, then?" Raffit asked instead, crossing his arms. There was a spot of Cain's blood on his sleeve.

Cain grit his teeth and made a mental note to get his mail before his secretary for the next several days. "Sure, that'll work," he agreed with a tight smile. "Thanks."

"No problem. Though next time you call me, please don't be bleeding?" he asked. He was smiling, just slightly, and Cain bit his lip against an answering grin. Raffit was charming, and a useful contact. That was it. He didn't actually _like _him.

"Does this mean I can call you again? I could use a medical contact," he added. He was still a bit woozy, or he would have been smoother.

"Right… I'm still going to find out what was going on, you know," Riff insisted, but shooed him out into the waiting room and towards his sister.

"You're welcome to try," Cain shot back. His sister gave him a distressingly knowing look, and took his arm to help him.

"Oh, Miss Merry?" Riff remembered, calling after them. "I don't want him out of his apartment for three days, at least. He's lost enough blood I'd prefer he have a transfusion, but I'm not equipped for it. Make sure he rests."

"Got it!"

Dammit. For a moment, Cain thought he was going to get away with working tomorrow. He glared back over his shoulder, but Dr. Raffit had already disappeared back into the examination room to clean up.

Well, Cain consoled himself, it hadn't been an entirely unsuccessful night. He got his evidence, he was patched up and starting to heal, and he might have an actual medical contact now.

Even if it would take him three days to find out if his bullet matched the one which had killed Mr. Addison, and he now needed to find a way to make it up to Merry. Joy…

* * *

**A/N: Wow, two posts in one day... This one kind of started as an excuse to imagine them in suits in modern day, and then I lost control, as I am wont to do. As soon as the question "Okay, so Cain's a lawyer, but how does he meet Riff?" was asked... whole mini-universe. Again.**

**I finished this chapter and posted it in honor of poisonandperfection's twenty-first birthday. I was going to buy you a peacock journal I saw in Barnes & Noble, but I always get people journals when I don't know what else to get them an also I couldn't find the really nice leather one I saw in the store online. So, I wrote this instead. Or, well, more of this, as you've already seen some of it. We've known each other for seven years... I ought to be able to find you better birthday presents by now.**

**Disclaimer: I've never dug a bullet out of someone before. I am not a trained medical professional. So, um, any inaccuracies I apologize for now. **

**Also, irrelevant side note: My mental placement as far as ages is concerned. Cain's thirty two, Riff's thirty six, Merry's twenty three. Also, Cain's 5'10" and Riff's 6'5". Cain's not short-Riff's just abnormally tall. I'm stating this more because I find this inexplicably funny than that it's remotely important.**


	2. Chapter 2

**See end of chapter for details.**

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Cain paged through the Lauderdale file again, rubbing absently at his forehead. The bullet Dr. Raffit had so graciously retrieved from his abdomen didn't match the one the coroner had pulled from Gilford Lauderdale's skull. He wasn't sure if this was what he wanted, or not. The case was too _easy, _in the end. It fit together too neatly. Besides which, the defendant just… didn't seem like a murderer. She was too calm on the stand, too collected.

There was just something about this case…

The door opened, and Cain jumped, rounding to glare at his secretary. "Sheila, I have told you before-"

She waved one manicured hand carelessly. "I was just letting you know I'm taking off," she told him. "Seeing as it's nearly six and we all should have been gone an hour ago." Sheila frowned and approached him to lean over his desk. "Especially you, Cain. You _still _look a bit peaky. Are you sure you're okay?"

Cain scowled at her. "Thank you for your input," he said, tossing the witness reports back onto his desk to join the rest of their useless brethren. "But as you are neither my mother nor my doctor, it shall be ignored."

"I expected nothing less." She laughed, and perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs. "Shall I tell Dom you say hello?" Sheila remained the only person Cain had ever met who could get away not only with using Crehador's first name, but a shortened version of his first name. Really, it just went to show how much he cared for her…

"I'd rather you remind him of the money he owes me." Cain leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and trying not to smile. He raised one eyebrow for good measure.

Sheila remained unimpressed. "He's not going to pay you back, Cain."

"I consider the money lost," he assured her. "Nevertheless, remind him. I may need to call on him soon."

"That's the only reason you keep paying his bail, isn't it? You just want someone else to do your legwork." Sheila laughed, absently flipping through the coroner report.

"In the disreputable neighborhoods where I stick out like a sore thumb no matter how I dress? Yes." Dominic Crehador was a useful connection-and a good friend, though Cain would sooner cut out his own tongue than admit as much.

"Cain…" Sheila chided. "Play nice."

"Sheila…" Cain mimicked, "your fiancee dresses like a pimp. Gabriel has better fashion sense, and that's saying something."

His secretary smiled, and Cain knew he'd misstepped somewhere badly enough to lose this skirmish. "Oscar is a fine gentleman…"

"And an idiot," he said. Coupled with a scowl, the reaction was almost instinctive to the redheaded lout. How that had managed to graduate from law school…

"Isn't Merry dating him?"

The question was innocent, but the blow was low. Cain glared. "Don't even. I thought you were going home?"

Sheila laughed. Well, damn her anyways. "No need to sulk, Cain. I'm going. Seriously, though, don't stay too late. If you were sick enough to miss work, you must really need the rest." She tilted back to her feet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and sauntered out of his office. Cain made a face at her back, but turned back to the file, desperate to find _something _to justify his instincts.

Five minutes later, the phone in the lobby rang. Cain sighed. This was _Sheila's _job, but she'd already left to meet up with her shady con man boyfriend and, of course, it was only after she'd left that there would be a call. Gritting his teeth, Cain got to the phone before it's fourth ring and picked up. "Hello, Hargreaves Legal," he greeted, trying not to be angry and sound cheerful.

"Oh, um-hello? I'm looking for Mr. Hargreaves…" The man sounded surprised to have reached anyone. Cain glanced at the clock. Given it was six-thirty and the posted hours were five, it wasn't any wonder.

"I'm Cain Hargreaves," Cain said slowly, sitting in Sheila's chair. "Why are you looking for me?"

"Oh, thank God, I thought for sure-no, sorry, I'm Riff-um, Dr. Raffit? I was hoping to speak for you." Cain was startled, but he most certainly was _not _blushing. He turned away from his reflection in the computer screen.

"All right," he agreed. "Where do you want to meet?"

"Well, if the doors to your office are still open, I can be there within fifteen minutes. It would be most convenient for you, wouldn't it?"

"That should be fine. I'll make sure the doors are open for you," Cain promised, and hung up. For a moment, he let himself be pleased. It was a welcome distraction from a case file that was giving him no help, and Raffit was attractive and charming and… Cain buried his face in his hands with a groan. And asked difficult, intelligent questions. What were the chances Raffit was just going to grill him about how he'd gotten shot? High enough that no self-respecting bettor would sell odds. This man was _not _going to be good for his health.

And he was going to make sure the door was unlocked anyway, wasn't he? It was the week of poor decision making, apparently.

* * *

As promised, Raffit was in his office within ten minutes. He looked even more tired than the last time Cain had seen him, an accomplishment given that last time it had been nearly three in the morning. He'd loosened his tie slightly, and one of those horribly tacky reusable grocery bags was slung over his shoulder, filled with file folders and a handful of loose papers. Exhausted or not, his smile was warm. "I wanted to check on your side," he explained, placing the bag at his feet. "Have you been taking those iron supplements I recommended?"

"Yes," Cain lied instantly. He crossed his arms. "I don't see why you couldn't have asked that over the phone. What are you really after?"

The doctor laughed and shook his head. "Why is it that every conversation with you feels like a cross examination?" It wasn't a question that expected answers, which was good as Cain wasn't about to give any that easily. "I'm still trying to figure out how you managed to get shot. I thought I'd develop a few theories of my own and see what you'd admit to." For once, Cain wished he hadn't been right. "I decided that it's most likely connected to your current case. Your prosecuting the Lauderdale murder, aren't you?"

"It could have been revenge," Cain pointed out, leaning against his desk. "Someone I put in jail."

Raffit shook his head. "The timing's wrong."

"They could have only just gotten out," Cain insisted.

"That hasn't happened, I checked."

"In three days?" Cain was almost impressed in spite of himself.

Raffit waved it off. "Unimportant. No one you've prosecuted successfully has been released, and there's no reason for cases you've lost to bear a grudge against you."

Especially as the majority of them were dead… but if Raffit hadn't learned that Cain was not letting him know.

"And you wanted the bullet for evidence yourself. If it was some revenge related incident, you would have gone to the police and put them back in jail, but you haven't. Besides, all of this is pointless conjecture and makes the scenario overly complex." Raffit was watching him closely. "You're trying to distract me."

"All right, fine. I'm in charge of the prosecution on the Lauderdale case. What of it?"

"Well, I tried to connect the two."

"It could have been an accident," Cain countered immediately. "Unrelated happenstance."

"If that was the case, you would have gone to the hospital instead of phoning me in the middle of the night. No, whatever you were doing was probably illegal. But you're a lawyer, you wouldn't break the law for no reason, so it had to be related to your work. Mr. Hargreaves, is there something wrong with the case?"

This Cain didn't have another solution for, which meant deflection. "What makes you say that?"

"You came after me when I was acquitted. You're not the sort of person to take facts at face value. You have to check, you have to know what _really _happened. You probably went back to the scene itself, to start at the beginning… Because you think there's something wrong with the case." Cain colored. "Am I right?" Raffit asked again. "I mean… All of the clippings I've read present the case as perfectly straightforward… Why don't you think so, too? Isn't it a good thing, if it's easy?"

"It's _too _easy!" Cain snapped finally. "It doesn't make sense!" He rounded on his desk, flipping again through the evidence, witness testimonies, and police report. "There's something wrong with it, somewhere, but I can't find _where." _He slid a file towards Raffit. "I've gone over the medical report so often I can practically recite it from memory. Victim identified as thirty one year old Gilford Lauderdale. Cause of death, a gunshot to the temple from a .22 caliber handgun. Bullet markings matched a handgun found in Mrs. Edith Everett's possession, though no sales record for the gun can be found. BAC was slightly over the legal limit, he had eaten well about four hours before death. Preliminary testimony from Miss Meridianna Everett, daughter of the defendant." He flipped the relevant file open again. "Miss Meridianna has admitted that she had had a sexual relationship for the past several months with Mr. Lauderdale. The night in question, they had eaten dinner together, then returned to his apartment, where they drank wine and conversed. During this conversation, Miss Meridianna told Mr. Lauderdale she was pregnant. They fought over the subject, and Miss Meridianna left the apartment and went straight to her mother's house for comfort. After taking care of her daughter and sending her to bed, Mrs. Everett left the house-this was around on o'clock-and, apparently, went straight to Lauderdale's apartment, where she found the door open, walked in, and shot him in the head while he was in bed."

"And that's what killed him?" Raffit asked, inspecting the evidence photos from the autopsy.

"Yes! I already said that!" Cain threw his hands into the air in exasperation, then lowered them to run distractedly through his hair. "We have three different witnesses to the sound of the gunshot, at the time of death given by the coroner. The defendant then called 911 and informed them of the murder. We have the tape, too! Everything fits, every last little thing. But it doesn't-goddamn it all, it doesn't feel right. I've looked at the evidence backwards and forwards, but it all matches up. It's driving me crazy-"

"It should be," Riff agreed quietly. He was still holding the file, and Cain belatedly remembered that there were rules of confidentiality about that, though he was too frustrated and angry to care at the moment. "It's wrong."

Cain scoffed. "It's a _murder, _Dr. Raffit, of course it's _wrong." _

The doctor blinked and looked up at him again. "What? No, I'm sorry, that's not what I-it's wrong. Factually, I mean. The bullet couldn't have killed him. He was already dead."

"What?" Cain whispered. His left knee had gone weak, and he leaned against the desk again.

Riff passed him the photograph he'd been inspecting so closely. "I could be wrong, but I think the gunshot was done postmortem."

"Would you swear to that on the stand?" Cain demanded immediately.

"Not right now, I wouldn't. This isn't my field of expertise, it's just a hobby-"

"A hobby to examine dead bodies?"

"I'm interested in forensic pathology, but I thought I'd rather help the living to heal than the dead to get justice," Riff explained. "I'd have to check a few sources, but…"

This was the breakthrough he'd been struggling to find for the last _week, _he wasn't going to let it slip away because of Raffit's uncertainty. "But you'd at least question the validity of the medical report?"

"Mr. Hargreaves, you're getting far too ahead of yourself. You should have the medical file double checked, assuming that's possible. Who was the examining coroner?"

"Clarence Nash, Dr. Clarence Nash."

Raffit frowned again, and went back to the file. "Really?" he asked, looking at the file notes again. "Maybe you should talk to him. I knew him in school-he was a lab partner of mine. I'd never seen notes as detailed as the ones he took. We were always last in the lab because he insisted on detail. These are… sparse. At best. That's not like him… He may have changed since I knew him, but it's still strange." The doctor sighed, flipping the file closed and handing it back to Cain. "I should go. I've got paperwork of my own to do."

"Wait, the bullet wound-" Cain protested.

"I'll see if I can't turn any information up, and check my facts. Come by my clinic on Friday? Or just call. You havemy number, after all."

It wasn't exactly the answer he was hoping for. "And you'll be certain by then?" he demanded.

"I'll at least be more certain." Raffit shrugged. "At the least, it's something for you to think about. If the bullet didn't kill Lauderdale, what did?"

"Of course," Cain agreed reluctantly. Friday night… Perhaps he could suggest dinner out, to discuss the case further? "If I've satisfied you, then…"

"No, actually." Raffit interrupted with a smile. He lifted the tote bag again, pulling out a pill bottle and setting it on Cain's desk. "You were lying about the iron supplements. If you _want _to recover fully, you should reexamine your diet. I'll also be looking at your own wound when you come by on Friday."

"Yes, good, _great," _Cain grumbled. He had the horrible feeling that Raffit was _laughing _at him. "Get out of my office."

* * *

**A/N: ...I actually have a murder plot for this. Oh my God. This is significant, guys. I write fantasy, not detective stories. I'm really excited about this. Which means, by the way, that this has blown up into a significant universe and will not be done in a handful of chapters like I expected. ...Whoops. **

**There's not really much else to say here, aside from a thank you for all the reviews I've been given and an apology for not updating anything for a month... This chapter's shorter, too, which is a little sad. **

**No anonymous reviews this time, so no anonymous review responses! **

**Thank you all for reading, and please read and review. **

**(I'll make another plug for poisonandperfection's story "A Case of Blackmail." I helped beta it, it's really good, guys. Really. Please. I need more people to love this story as much as I do so she'll actually write the last part of it. Though I admit that might be as much my fault as anything else, but that's beside the point. Go love it, it's good.)**


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